Setia
by Ea Skyrah
Summary: Prompt: "You don't marry someone you can live with—you marry someone you cannot live without." Nessian. AU.
1. Veiled

Here's one my first prompts I've written. Send a prompt through my PM, and I'll write a fic to the best of my abilities :)

* * *

 _"you were worth every mile between us until the roads came along and ran over us"_

 **Prompt** : You don't marry someone you can live with—you marry someone you cannot live without.

* * *

Nesta smoothed down the pale, peach gown twirling around her ankles. She stared at herself in the golden embroidered mirror, at the exterior of a hardened, beautiful female. Crystals embed her bracelet and large jewels fix onto the high heels. Her long, straightened hair fell flawlessly above a shoulder.

The door opened, and she turned her head to regard the intruder.

Elain.

There's a sad smile tucked under her younger sister's face. Elain, the blooming flower in this cold, seeping world. Indeed, there's a bouquet of tiger lilies clasped into her own pale hands. They had both agreed on not having roses, the thorns Nesta would have most likely used to stab out the eyes of her husband.

The way he looked at her, like he wanted to devour her, own her, have her submit completely —

Her posture did not falter. This was for her family. To repay Feyre for the hunting in the coldness she had to endure. To repay Elain for never letting her see beyond these walls in her form of protection.

Her penance.

A marriage in which her family would be given a warm home and money to eat. A marriage in which she would be trapped with a male who loved his ego and easy smiles. A marriage in which she'd be giving up her last part of herself that remained:

Love.

Elain set the flowers on the vanity table, and stared at the window. "The crowd is here. The town has shown up. Our father is not."

Nesta didn't expect anything else. Not when their father had arranged the marriage in the facade of a business transaction. Not when their father had arranged the marriage with the person that had taken away Nesta's virginity. Not when their father had arranged the marriage between her and Tomas, the man who had hurt her where she should have been worshipped.

A tear slipped down Elain's porcelain face. There had always been a fragility surrounding the Archeron's youngest, and thus the need to protect her young heart and mind from the intruding shadows and sinking darkness that whirled around their society.

"I'm sorry," Elain sobbed, standing a distance away from Nesta. Regret lined her face, an emotion Nesta had lived with every time Feyre had slipped from the house and returned, her body shivering and frailer.

But she learned to not show regret, not when it would be used against her. Because when she allowed herself to give a few smiles, her offerings had been turned against her when her body had been violated.

"I know you're doing this for me," said Elain. "But I want you to know that I cannot accept this. This gift of freedom and wealth you're giving to me—I cannot take it."

"Feyre is not at the reception." It's not a question, but a statement.

A slow shake of Elain's head, her curls bouncing. "She's…" Devastation lined her face. "She's restraining Cassian."

This time, Nesta turned her head away.

 _Cassian_.

The man who had fought for her when no one else would. The man who had asked her permission _to end_ Tomas. The man who had loved her when she could not love herself.

The man she one could have seen herself marrying. She'd never live to tell him that, not when serving her family came first. He'd find another female to satisfy him, Nesta was sure. Cassian had everything, while she had nothing.

The Archerons lived in squalor while Feyre's recent friends from the other side of the wall had the riches to buy their town out and bribe every resident to search for a new home. The first time Nesta had met Cassian, she'd mistaken him as a peasant.

He had been crouched over in the soil, attempting to plant a flower. A iris, to be precise. She had stooped down and asked him why he was bothering to spend time on a piece of nature that would wither away soon. Cassian had merely replied that the iris stood for hope, and cherished companionship, something he'd been looking for all his life.

" _Would you be my iris_?" He had dimpled, shoving his soiled hands into his pockets, his hair mussed.

Nesta had scoffed, and wondered why she had bothered to waste her own time on a stranger she'd most likely never seen again. She was familiar with all the faces in the town, but had never seen his before. Nesta had told him that.

Cassian had cocked his head, and raised a brow, an almost comical expression she'd soon associate with him completely. It was then he told her he belonged to the other side of the wall, where all the flamboyant lives flaunted their wealth.

Nesta had agreed to be his _iris_ , telling herself it was because he lived among the upper class, not because she'd fallen for the sight of the strong male trying to create life among penury.

"Are you ready?" Elain touched her arm, and gave a single sniff.

Nesta nodded, and walked towards the door. She'd already denied Tomas's demands to wear a white, stuffy dress. To wear a veil and not show an inch of her skin.

" _I cannot wear white when I am no longer pure_." She had stared into her finance's eyes, fiercely glaring at him, forcing herself to not toe the ground. She had steeled herself into a pillar of ice. " _White will not suffice_."

She had denied the veil as well, desiring every emotion of silent rage to be written across her face. Wanted the pictures to show that she had not been willing. That she did not fully submit herself to a monster.

She could live with this marriage for her family. She could live with this marriage so Feyre would be showered with jewels to buy paint and canvases. She could live with this marriage so that Elain would not be encircled and stuck in their poor excuse of a home, shivering their insides and reducing their souls of flaring embers into burnt ashes.

She could accept this marriage as a means to seek revenge on her _husband_.

She could be strong.

Nesta flung open the door, and stalked down the corridor. Elain hurried alongside her.

They both stopped at before the corridor, where the red woven path led to the entrance, the center under a dome of where she'd begin her first steps towards her husband.

"Nesta," Elain said, sadness etched onto her brows. "You don't marry someone you can live with—you marry someone you cannot live without."

 _Cassian_. If she peered down the hallways, she could imagine that the fringes of darkness would be his ink-hued hair, fleeting within her conscience. She could see the shared memories in which happiness had finally become a facet of her life. She could see the stars in his eyes as he offered the Universe to her.

She swallowed, and lifted one leg forward.

She could do this.

Nesta grabbed Elain's hand, and squeezed. She would not think of the male who had taught her to smile, not when if he were here, he would have soothed a hand down her back or stroked her inner palm with his thumb.

This was a future of where she could give her sisters everything they desired. She could give them a chance to live again and start anew. Without her.

The oldest and youngest Archeron sisters rounded the corner, stepping into the gazes of those that filled their town, the people who had turned their backs against them when their father's business failed.

And Nesta slowly walked down the aisle, into the nest of snakes and vipers, casting any inkling of Cassian out of her head.

Because he was the Sun and she was the Moon: they were never meant to collide.


	2. Unveiled

I couldn't end part 1 like that, so here's a semi-related part 2! I tried a little different writing style.

Feel free to PM me prompts~

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 **Unveiled**

 _"three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, the truth"_

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at nine o'clock in the morning, the fast fading face of the moon floating away.

The male stepped off the porch, ignoring the fists slamming against the entrance door. He slid the key in his left pocket and walked off without a second glance back.

"You bastard!" Feyre screamed. "I was doing you a favor!"

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at ten o'clock in the morning, the whispers of words and sounds of shoes fading into the church.

The male slid out the window, ignoring the raging protests from the representative. He slid the neatly folded contract in his left pocket and walked off without a second glance back.

"You thief!" the businessman yelled. "I'll find you!"

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at eleven o'clock in the morning, sparks flying from the black stone and fire raging around the slab of rocks.

The male held out his palm, and the blacksmith set the warm leathed into his rough hand. He gripped the hilt and watched the sharpened blade absorb the piercing light.

"My finest creation," the blacksmith stated. "Dark and deadly."

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at twelve o'clock in the afternoon, the dry rays of the blearing sun falling across the deserted village.

The male went up the steps of white-cracked stone and strode under the dome of the church. Flinging the iron-rodded doors open, he carelessly twirled the blade in his hand.

"—are there any objections?" the priest started, and stopped—

—gaped at the dangerous male stalking down the aisle—the darkness exuding from him, the darkened blade of obsidian and might, and the delightful wickedness curved onto his mouth.

Murmurs broke through the pews, but the male only focused at the bride, at the veiled woman in gray, not white.

He smiled wider. "I object."

The husband sneered, malice pinned over those beady eyes. "A bastard thinks he can claim my property?"

The male saw red, and twirled the blade to a stop. "Property?" he breathed lowly, too softly.

Those at the end of the pews leaned forward eagerly. The priest edged further away from the altar, sensing the brewing trouble.

A pause. Then — " _Property_?" the male roared, and strode forward at a faster pace.

The proclaimed husband sneered, and drew his own blade from his side. "She's indebted to me, anyways. By law you can't interfere, bastard."

It was time they learned to not provoke the bastard he was — little did they know his true ferality and rage — little did they know the game they'd just stepped into — little did they know the true wildcat behind that veil.

The male merely shrugged, sheathing back his blade. The priest visibly sighed, the husband smirking in victory.

Pawns indeed.

The male drew the contract out of his pocket.

The pews were silent.

"What's that?" the black and white figure of a husband called from the top of the steps. "You can't beat me by sword, so you turn to paper?"

The male could see the outlines of the female's lips under the veil — curved up into a crooked smile.

It only made him smile more.

"Sure, Tomas Mandray," he drawled out. "But it's not legal to marry Nesta Archeron, either."

" 'the hell you mean?" the Tomas Mandray bit out.

The bride lifted her gray skirts and took one step down from the platform. The male walked one step up, rolling out the paper. The priest took the contract warily, eyes skimming over the legal document.

The priest cleared his throat.

The man at the altar clenched his fists. "Well?"

The priest looked almost apologetic. "It seems you cannot marry Nesta Archeron because, she—in fact—is already married."

Tomas' mouth dropped open and closed.

The bride tore off her veil, revealing the vicious woman underneath. She didn't stop there, tearing off her skirts and sleeves — revealing the combat clothes underneath.

No more gray and white, but ink and darkness.

Her true self.

Nesta Archeron held out her left hand, revealing an obsidian ring embedded with pure, shining rubies.

"Hello, Cassian," she smiled, and down the rest of the steps towards the male. "My husband."

Tomas seethed.

Cassian walked up the steps, and kissed her forehead. "Hello, wife."

A cough sounded from behind them, Tomas snarling, a vein popping out from his forehead. He had brandished his sword again, the edge aimed at Nesta's back.

Cassian immediately moved his wife to his side and launched forward, deflecting the blow in a smooth, fierce motion, drawing out his own sword in a single movement.

Tomas's sword flew through the air and snagged through the golden curtains covering the crystal, mosaic windows.

The priest ran.

"You dare harm an unarmed female?" Cassian snarled.

Tomas backed up against the altar, lines of sweat running down his face.

"She does not belong to you — never has and never will."

Tomas reached for the goblet on the stand and tossed it at Cassian's direction.

Cassian easily dodged the flying goblet and lunged — wielding the blade under Tomas' neck. Leaning in, he made sure the other male could hear every enunciated syllable.

"Midnight. Here. We settle our scores there."

Tomas swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing.

The blade pressed against the other male's neck, drawing little lines of crimson pressing against his black suit.

"Fine," Tomas Mandray managed to snipe out, eyes blackening. "Midnight."

The pews emptied.

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at twelve o'clock midnight, the moon casting disillusioned rays of white against the dark, the only witness of what served to transpire at the church.

The male walked up the stairs of the church with air of confidence. He pushed open the cold, steel doors and walked down the single path.

Another male figure stood at the altar, a larger sword hanging low at his hips. "I thought you wouldn't show," Tomas rasped.

"No one hurts my family," Cassian snarled, "and lives to tell the tale."

Tomas descended from the altar, Cassian striding up.

When Tomas lashed out with his first stroke, Cassian dodged — a tossed his own sword to the side.

A maniacal grin. "I don't need another weapon to kill you."

Tomas faltered. Cassian's right hand reached out and grasped Tomas's neck.

He squeezed, relishing in the sounds of protest and the aroma of fear. Tomas weakly swung his sword, but Cassian merely grabbed the edge of the blade, and yanked it out down — dislocating Tomas's wrist.

Tomas squeaked and let go of the blade.

Cassian expertly caught the sword with his left hand and raised Tomas by the neck higher.

He squeezed — a crush to the windpipe.

Perhaps Tomas Mandray pleaded, but Cassian — the bastard — never heard him above the other male's own choking noises.

Cassian raised his left hand, the steel sword glinting in the faded fray of the church.

He struck a line down Tomas's abdomen. A semicircle and a slash. More lines. More blood. Tomas's body stopped squirming in Cassian's grasp.

Cassian drew Tomas closer so the male could hear every enunciated syllable. "As Nesta Archeron is my wife, her debts are paid. You have not a single legitimate claim to or on her."

Tomas stilled.

Cassian plunged the blade — not through Tomas's heart, but through Tomas's kidney.

Cassian twirled Tomas's body around, and slashed the blade in an arc — not through Tomas's neck, but through Tomas's spine.

A cripple.

He dropped the convulsing body.

"The blood spilled here tonight was spilled by your own sword."

A horrid cacophony of coughing and spewing emerged from the floor.

Scarlet and crimson red stained the royal red carpet, soaking into the tiles and through the pews.

Cassian spared one last look at the twisted figure at his feet, and the lines carved over the fallen's stomach: _RAPIST._

"By tomorrow, you will excommunicated for your sins. In front of everyone, you will be damned."

The bloodied body twitched.

The male left the church, the moon shining a brighter eerie glow along his path, the darkness and shadows swallowing the other fallen male's body whole.

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at one o'clock in the morning, the moon a crescent and half-smile of a Chesire's cat leering down in expectation.

The male rounded the cathedral where the priest slept.

He pushed open the golden-rimmed doors with silver embroiderment.

The figure in the bed roused awake quickly, pulling the blankets around the bed. "Who's there?" A whisper.

The male merely flicked the blood-stained blade up in answer.

The figure shrieked — a high pitched sound belonging to a female.

The male stalked around the room, noting the intricate scrawls of feminine writing. When the figure at the bed made to leap out and away, he turned around with abruptness that had the hooded figure halting in shock.

Cassian smiled — a predator's grin. "You should have known better, Ianthe." He _tsked_ his tongue. "You — even a High Priestess in Priest's clothing — should have never, _ever_ mess with a bastard."

He shot forward and grabbed Ianthe's jaw, forcing it open.

Before she could scream, he nicked off her tongue in a clean slice.

It fell to the ground.

The scream died at her lips.

Cassian drew the blade through her second kidney. Blood splurted over blue robes and all over the pearled floor.

"The blood spilled here tonight was spilled by Tomas Mandray's sword," the male recited.

He pulled the blade out.

He pulled back the Priest's hood, revealing the blond-haired woman inside.

"Tomorrow, you will be excommunicated for as imposing as a male who serves a higher status than you." Cassian watched the convulsing figure on the floor. "In front of everyone, you will be damned."

He stalked out of the cathedral, tossing the bloodied blade into the fountain of holy water.

* * *

The bells tolled exactly at two o'clock in the morning, the shadows seeping out from the lines of the fields of lilies.

The male leaned down and picked on in full-bloom along the stem.

A woman appeared from the stalks, a ghost of a phantom.

She swung the obsidian sword in her hands easily, the red encrusted jewels glimmering through the darkness.

"My plan fully worked?" Nesta asked.

She pressed the hilt into his hands.

The blade was clean, immaculate.

He pinned the flower behind her ear and kissed her forehead.

The wind blew softly around them.

The male nodded. "Remember to tell me to never get on your bad side, Nesta Vatra."

A viper's smile. "Feyre's unlocked now, and can't suspect the other's deaths."

A soft breeze carried away their secrets of the day and dawn.

"Just curious," the male drawled, nodding. "But why the kidney?"

She intertwined their fingers. "A strike to the heart or across the neck, and the village would have expected you."

Cassian chuckled deeply, and stared at the woman — his wife. Dangerous, dangerous this woman.

Sheathing his blade, he wrapped his arms around his wife's waist, lifting her up along the white light of the moon, and kissed her deeply, the flowers singing the melody of dark and deadliness around them.

"To the future and the past," she whispered, as he nipped her lips.

"To freedom, _Nesta Vatra_." And Cassian Vatra lifted her into his arms bridal style, carrying her into the dawn.

* * *

 _*Vatra_ means _fire_ in Croatian; I've always imagined Cassian as Middle Eastern among others.


End file.
